


The Rights of Man

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Aristocracy, Aristocrat Castiel, Baker Dean, French Revolution, Human Castiel, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1792, and the French Revolution has already begun.  Dean is the son of a baker, gearing up for rebellion, and Castiel’s family is French aristocracy, debating whether they should flee the country or try to ride out the storm.  In a last-ditch effort to avoid catastrophe, Castiel tries to make changes in the land that his family governs.  Of course, it’s too little, too late, and they get swept up in the Revolution as well.  But when it comes time for the aristocracy to pay the price for their greed, will Castiel’s kindness save him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Estate

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I apologize in advance for any errors in my descriptions of the city of Troyes, and for slightly tweaking the timeline of events described within this story. I altered some historical details here to better suit the story, and I take full responsibility for those changes and any errors I’ve made. Additionally, I decided to keep most people’s names the same, even though I realize they are not French, nor are they historically accurate. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the story :)

 

 

**June, 1792**

_“Nothing can succeed without it, everything would be infinitely better without the others.”_ –Abbé Sieyes, “What is the Third Estate?”

 

 

Dawn washed over the fresh green fields first, turning them gold with early light and chasing the shadows away; back, back, toward the town, and then beyond, until it disappeared over the far horizon.  The lightening of the town came more gradually—the soft light of dawn crept down the sides of orderly lined houses, sinking into the wood and brick to warm it—before spilling into the twisting lanes of cobbles below.  A cool breeze blew in off the river Seine, bringing with it the sweet smell of fresh wild flowers—a sure sign of the summer.  It was going to be a warm, beautiful day.

The town of Troyes had been established by the Romans, and its history was a respectable one.  Much of the town had been destroyed in a great fire in the year 1524, but the citizens lovingly rebuilt what they could, and life carried on in Troyes. 

Troyes had long been the seat of the Comte d’Ange, a noble title that had been handed down since the very first Capet king ascended the throne of France.  The d’Ange estate was a sprawling affair on the outskirts of the town, though the Comte had traditionally conducted his affairs from the stately Hotel de Ville, a stone palace that reigned over the central square of Troyes.

For long years, the Comte d’Ange was regarded as a respected advisor to the King, given the responsibility of ensuring the successful administration of the Champagne region.  The title Comte carried with it the heavy and ancient weight of nobility, but the position was also a vaunted one.  And the d’Ange family were of old blood, descended from the first of the Frankish kings centuries before the first Capet had ever received his crown. 

The current Comte, Charles d’Ange was the descendant of great rulers; noble blood flowed through his veins—he was the product of a glorious lineage.  However, as fate sometimes saw fit, Charles seemed to have inherited none of the courage, intelligence, or practicality of his ancestors.  In fact, common opinion of the Comte (though it was never spoken of in polite company) was that he was a drunkard at best and an incompetent imbecile at worst.  There was no love lost between the Comte and those under his governance.  Whenever he deigned to show his face, he was regarded with contempt by all in Troyes and the surrounding lands. 

As of late, the situation had taken on a dire air—another thing that was rarely spoken of within the hearing of others.  Ever since the peasantry had risen up and stormed the Bastille armory in the year 1789, tensions had run increasingly high throughout the French countryside.  Though King Louis had attempted to smash the rebellion, it continued to spring up throughout Paris and the nearby towns insistently.  The revolution of the poor and the _enlightened_ ones refused to be put down.  Whatever social contract that had existed between the Comte and his people had been shattered by his tepid reaction to the rebellion, and the trust between the local nobles and those who made up what had been christened the “Third Estate” now ceased to exist.

The Comte secluded himself in his palace and continued to drink his days and his life away, content to let the world burn around him so long as it did not rouse him from his general antipathy.  If the Comte himself had held full sway of Troyes, the town and all of the surrounding lands would likely have fallen into utter ruin.  However, this was not the case.  The Comte d’Ange was lucky, or unlucky enough to have been blessed with three sons—the eldest was named Gabriel, the middle child was Balthazar, and the youngest was Castiel.

The elder two brothers were content to spend their days amusing themselves and indulging in their inheritance.  The d’Ange family came from very old money but they were also entitled to the seasonal tithes from the residents of Troyes and the surrounding villages.  Even after the rebellions had begun and wreaked instability across all of France, the d’Ange family had continued to collect the taxes that were traditionally owed to them.  Whispers abounded that this action was a result of the insensitive, uncaring nature of the nobility, but the two eldest d’Ange brothers were unbothered.  

It was left then to the youngest brother, Castiel, to do what he could to mediate between his family and all those who answered to them.  It was perhaps more than a simple stroke of luck that Castiel inherited more from his ancestors than simply their wealth and their name.  Though he was the youngest amongst his brothers, he was also the only one with a mind for skillful administration, and a heart and head filled with empathy for his fellow man.

As he came of age, Castiel began to take on more and more of his father’s responsibilities until the Comte d’Ange goverened Troyes only in name.  True governance fell to his youngest son.

Castiel did what he could to temper his family’s impetuous lavishness and take care of the people in his father’s care, all while navigating the treacherous roads of poverty, hunger, and rebellion. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Castiel considered it his duty, but he’d also always drawn pleasure from immersing himself amid the people that his family governed.  Since he’d officially taken over his father’s affairs, it was common for him to spend his days mingling with the peasantry in the wheat fields, and in the vineyards, or checking in with the merchants and artisans that enriched the economy of Troyes.  Though they’d been wary of nobility in general, they recognized that despite his family’s penchant for luxuriousness and lavish spending, Castiel was making an honest effort to govern Troyes in a fair manner that upheld the dignity of all men.  The Comte d’Ange stood on tradition and insisted on being addressed by his formal title whenever he did make an appearance, but Castiel did not feel comfortable with such things, especially in the worsening political climate.  Instead, he insisted upon being addressed simply as Monsieur Castiel, and most of the townsfolk obliged, though Castiel’s brothers sneeringly mocked him often for his efforts, saying instead that he was lowering himself for the benefit of those who simply refused to accept their place in the world.

On this particular day, Castiel made his way casually through the town of Troyes on his own, insisting that his father’s guards stay with the carriage on the outskirts of the town nearest to his father’s estate so as not to cause unnecessary trouble. 

Though Castiel could not stomach the lavishness of his family, he made sure to dress well whenever he appeared in public, so that people would recognize him, and so that he would not embarrass his family.  Today found Castiel dressed in a white silk shirt, with his favorite dark blue waistcoat and high-necked tailcoat of the same color, embroidered with gold thread.  Form-fitting black breeches hugged his hips and thighs, trailing down to white stockings, and finally ending in black shoes with golden buckles.  Though it was the popular fashion in Paris, and the court, Castiel could not bring himself to wear anything as silly as a white powdered wig when he was only 24 years old—instead he allowed his dark brown hair to remain natural, which often meant that it was wild and untamable.  Gabriel and Balthazar both laughed at him, and told him that he’d look better with a wig, but considering their own sense of fashion, Castiel decided it was to his own benefit to ignore them both.

Townsfolk bowed to Castiel as he passed them by on his way toward the town square and the market near to it.  He knew many of them by name, and was even familiar with their families and the happiness and sadness that filled their lives.  That was how it was supposed to be, Castiel thought—the nobility were supposed to be a part of those they governed, not so far removed that they were constantly regarded with suspicion. 

A moment later, Castiel pushed his way into the bakery, run by the same family for three generations: the Winchesters were a hardworking, honest lot, and Castiel always patronized their shop because Dean Winchester made the best bread in all of Troyes.  However, it was not Dean that met Castiel at the shop counter, but rather his younger brother Sam, a boy of 14 who was still an apprentice.  He was a good boy, though, and Castiel flashed him a friendly smile when he saw him, greeting “Good morning, Sam.”

Sam tipped his head and smiled back, though one of his eyes twitched and he seemed slightly anxious, perhaps.  “Monsieur Castiel.  I hope that you are enjoying your Saturday.”

“I am, thank you.  I am here to pick up my usual Saturday order.”

Sam bowed, saying “Of course,” before he excused himself from the counter.  Castiel glanced around the tidy shop, admiring some of the finer loaves of spiced bread, and meat pies that lined the shelves behind the counter, wondering if Dean was perhaps in the back making more, sweating in the heat of the ovens.  Castiel’s musings were cut short, however, because he did not have long to wait before Sam returned with his order.  The boy set the ten loaves of bread carefully on the counter between them and remarked “I hope that they meet your standard, Monsieur.”

Castiel waved the words away, assuring “Your family bakes the best bread in Troyes, Sam.  Thank you for these.  Has the account been paid?”

“Of course.  It’s all been taken care of.”

“Good.  Then I should be off.  I need to deliver these to the Cathedral before I return home.  Thank you, Sam, and give my regards to your father and brother.”

“I will, and thank _you_ for the patronage, Monsieur.”

With those parting words, Castiel made his way from the bakery toward the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul to deliver the bread that he bought to help feed the poorest of Troyes every Sunday.

 

* * *

 

 

 

As soon as the door shut behind Monsieur Castiel, Sam allowed himself to breathe a long sigh of relief.  Casting a quick glance out the window to assure himself that no one else would need his help for a moment, he slunk to the back of the shop, where a gathering of men and women stood wide-eyed and silent, practically holding their breath throughout the entire preceding encounter.

John Winchester, a large, gruff man, whose body was still hard with muscle from years of hauling sacks of flour and kneading bread despite the gray at his temples, stared at his youngest son from across a low table in the back room.  “Who was that, Sam?”

Sam cleared his throat, nerves still wracking his body at how close they had all come to getting caught.  “It was Monsieur Castiel.”

Bobby Singer cast Ellen Harvelle a dark look across the table, and said “That was too close.  We need to find another place to meet, like I’ve been saying for weeks now.”

Dean shook his head, then, though, and said “No, it’s nothing.  He comes here every Saturday for the same order.”

John turned a skeptical look at his eldest son.  “And what is his order?”

Dean shrugged.  “Ten loaves of our olive bread.”

Jo snorted in the most un-ladylike fashion and Ellen nudged her, growling “Mind your manners.”

Bobby stared at Dean for a moment before he turned his attention back to John.  “Ten loaves.  That’s exactly the sort of excess that the rioters in Paris have been screaming about.  And they’re right.  We won’t be able to ignore this much longer, John.  The winds of change are blowing, and something is going to give.”

Ellen perched her hands on her wide hips and frowned.  “It’s been two years since Bill was drafted into the army and killed for the pleasure of the king.  I refuse to live under the boot of the aristocracy any more.  I can’t do it.  Jo and I can hardly feed ourselves nowadays, and here we have the Comte’s son buying up loaves and loaves of bread for himself and his lazy brothers and good for nothing father.  When is it going to end?  When will the revolutionaries look farther than Paris, and realize that the whole country is starving?”

“Let’s hope sooner rather than later, Ellen.  If not, well… only cowards are afraid to take their fates into their own hands, and I do not count any among us here a coward.”

Sam listened intently to the talk of rebellion and change, and the rights of those who did the work.  His father and Bobby spoke of changes in the capital and that new institution of the National Assembly.  All of it made sense to him, and he could feel his own heart swell with the excitement of the word they did _not_ speak—revolution.  Things were going to change, one way or another, but those that were gathered in the back room of the bakery smiled dark, sarcastic grins when they said so, suggesting they hoped that bloodshed was involved.  In fact, most people believed that the only way things would ever change at all _was_ with blood.

Sam thought about revolution and stared out of the window guiltily, to where Castiel had disappeared into the crowd surrounding the Cathedral.

 


	2. News from Paris

 

 

_August, 1792_

_“Nothing will make me change my principles. Even with the knife at my neck I shall still declare, up to this day, the poor have done everything; it is time for the rich to take their turn….”_

–Jean-Paul Marat

 

 

Dean Winchester had strong arms.  They were the arms of a man who worked for a living, corded with muscle, lightly tanned, and covered in burn scars from the long years of learning to maneuver safely around the ovens and hot pans.  He used his strength to work flour, eggs, milk, butter, and other ingredients into thick, rich dough that he kneaded with strong, long fingers.  Dean spent his days turning dough into tasty, nourishing breads and pastries that served to feed his family and neighbors.  Dean was proud to be the son of a baker, was proud to take up the same honest work.  He was a good man, a hard-working man, and he’d never regretted using his strength in the simple production of food—food that many of late could not afford, food that no one had the luxury of taking for granted.  But Dean knew that same strength could easily be used for other means.  More brutal, bloody purposes.  The same arms and hands and fingers that turned flour into bread to feed the hungry could be used to pull a trigger, or hold a blade, or hit and hurt, or squeeze the air and life out of a man.  On long, dark, early mornings when Dean awoke before the rest of his family to begin baking the bread for the day, his mind was full of such dark possibilities.

 

* * *

 

 

There was little offered at the market nowadays.  Where once carts full of vegetables and fruits and sweet breads had been arranged around the market, now half-empty baskets displayed withered potatoes and carrots that looked as though they’d been pulled from the earth much too early.  Sam tried to pay these things little mind, but he couldn’t help but notice them.  So too did he notice the growing number of dirty, rag-clad people who wandered around the market with large, hungry eyes.  They were homeless and starving, Sam knew.  For years now, he had listened to the news coming from Paris, relating things that were almost beyond belief.  It had started three years ago, with the women rioting for bread, and the men losing their minds and storming the royal armory at the Bastille, taking the guns and swords, freeing prisoners and burning as they went.  He heard tales that so many people had taken up the cause that their very footsteps had shaken the stones of the fortress.  After that, there had been speeches and pamphlets, and endless rounds of bartering.  The nobles and the Church folk had done their damnedest to hold onto what they had, and to figure out a way to continue getting more without having to give an inch.  The peasantry had originally wanted something as simple as lower taxes and more bread to feed their families with, but now they wanted much more than that.  They wanted revolution, they wanted an end to the monarchy and the reign of the nobility, they wanted blood on their hands. 

Sam had just filled his hand basket with eggs for the bakery when the market was filled with the sound of raucous shouting and the clomping of horses’ hooves on the cobbles.  The crowd parted just in time for a large black horse to gallop into the square, and the haggard, bloodied man atop it to gasp and shout “The Tuileries has been stormed by the National Guard and the fédérés!  King Louis has been arrested!  There is rioting in Paris!  We are all doomed!  France is lost!”  As soon as his message was delivered, the man kicked his horse and rode off in a panic.  Sam stood still for a moment, gaping at the news, before the silence of the square exploded.  Sam grasped his basket close and ducked out of the crowd, hurrying back to the bakery as fast as he could.

Sam was winded by the time he burst through the door of the shop to find Dean leaning against the counter, apron covered with a fine dusting of flour, hands clean and bare below his rolled-up shirt sleeves.  “Dean, get dad!  It’s happening.  It’s really happening.  The revolution!”

 

* * *

 

 

Somewhere along the way, Winchester’s Bakery had become the headquarters for the revolutionary underground movement in Troyes.  It was the perfect place to meet: much less likely to house rebels than the printing house that Bobby Singer owned or Harvelle’s Tavern, which was known to cater to a rowdy crowd.  But John Winchester was a fine, upstanding citizen, the son of a French soldier turned baker, a soldier who was a staunch loyalist.  John had been a loyalist once, too.  He’d supported the monarchy because he believed that a man needed to be loyal, and he needed to understand his role in life. 

John was determined to do just that, until his wife Mary died and it was left to him to care for his family and carry on the family business.  The times had gotten harder after Mary’s death, but John had been able to take care of his sons, and that was his main priority.  However, after Louis XVI had taken the throne, new taxes had been instituted to support his lavish lifestyle, and the crops had gone bad not long after that.  Many cursed the King and claimed France’s bad fortune was due to his marriage to the Austrian Marie Antoinette, but John thought those men to be superstitious fools.  Still, he could not argue that the poor Frenchmen were growing poorer as the richest in the country—the nobility and the clergy—continued to grow ever richer.  He’d been frustrated, and angry, and then Bobby Singer had showed up at his door one day waving around a book all about the rights of man.

Bobby Singer had easily become popular among the discontented citizens of Troyes because he owned one of only four printing presses in the town, and though he was cautious, he ceaselessly printed new pamphlets full of revolutionary ideas, and the words of scholars and scientists, who sought to educate the masses and take the power away from the nobility and the Church men.  He’d been happy to provide the same materials to John Winchester and as they grew older, his sons.  It was never too early to start to educate oneself, he believed.  And Bobby Singer had lived long enough to see the condition of the people of Troyes decline.  Families he’d known his whole life had lost their homes because they could no longer pay their taxes, or they starved in order to pay them.  There was something inherently wrong in standing by as someone else went hungry, so Bobby did his best.  But he also knew that the local nobility were either heartless bastards, or completely oblivious to the condition of their people.  Either way, he knew that things had to change. 

Even so, he never thought he’d see the day when real change finally happened.  Standing amongst his friends in the back of Winchester’s Bakery, hearing the news, Bobby could not help but feel a swell of righteous triumph.  Sam Winchester stood in the middle of the crowd, relating the message he’d heard in the square for the third time, eyes still wide with disbelief.  “I can’t believe they arrested the King.”  He said, over and over again.

“Maybe they’ll try him and hold him accountable for starving his country, too!”  John growled.

“Oh, he’ll pay,” Ellen said, with a strange glint in her eye.  “One way or another, he _will_ pay for what he’s done.  If the law does not hold him accountable, his people will.”

“He ain’t the only one who’s responsible for this mess, though.”  Bobby reminded them all.  “The King is the worst of them, maybe, but the state of this country is the fault of many.  You remember what we talked about before?  It ain’t ever been fair that the clergy don’t have to pay taxes on their land, and instead they keep getting handouts from the King and from Rome.  And in the meantime, they turn the homeless, the helpless, the starving, away from their doors.  They’re supposed to help people, but instead they leave them in the streets to die!  And those greedy, weak-willed bastards that dare to call themselves nobility!  Raising taxes that break our backs, and steal the bread from our children’s mouths while they continue to feast and throw elaborate balls.  They still strut around like peacocks in their fine silk clothes.  They don’t care about us.  Never have.  It’s time for that to change.”

Dean wiped his sweaty hands on his apron and said “Well, the Parisians have taken the King.  That’s doing something.”

Ellen glared Dean’s way while John said “That’s not enough, son.  Not now.  The whole system is corrupt.  It’s not enough to cut the head off this monster.  The monarchy still exists.  Titles still exist, and those sons of bitches still think they were born better than the rest of us.  They think they’re _entitled_ to our labor without ever having to give anything back.  It’s time for us to teach them.”

Sam gulped, hands twisted together in front of him.  “What will we do?”

John’s eyes were dark and heavy, resolute, when he said “Whatever we have to.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gabriel threw another armful of his clothes in a gold-gilded case, his face flushed and sweaty as he did so, eyes wild with panic.  His father and Balthazar both stared on with disdain, eyes heavy with drink.  “Would you hurry up and pack!  We need to get out of here, or haven’t you been listening?!”

“Yes, yes, I heard the message,” the Comte d’Ange replied before he took a deep drink of his wine.  “But I think people are worrying over nothing.”

Gabriel’s voice cracked when he shouted “Those damned rebels _arrested the King_ for Christ’s sake, father!  How are we supposed to take that news?”

Castiel ran a hand through his hair—it was still shaking with nerves—and said “Why didn’t they just lower the taxes and feed the hungry if that is the problem?  Then there would be none of this senseless killing in our capital!”

The Comte chuckled and swirled his wine, regarding his youngest over the rim of the crystal.  “You don’t understand their minds, Castiel.  They’re not the same as us.  They will always find something to shed blood over.  They’re animals.”

Gabriel’s voice was shrill now, and he was panting with the need to escape.  “We should be worrying about _ourselves,_ not THEM!  What if the peasants get wind of this?  Then what about US?  If they have the nerve to arrest the King, what will they be willing to do to us?”  He slammed his case closed and stood quivering in front of his family, his fine silk clothes soaked through with fear-drenched sweat.

Balthazar waved his hand at his brother, utterly unbothered by anything that he’d heard.  “Please,” he drawled lazily, “even if the King _is_ a simpleton and a coward, he is still the King and he will not stand for this.  He will have this rebellion in hand in no time.”

Castiel stared at his brother in shock.  “Haven’t you been paying attention, Balthazar?  The King hasn’t had control of this _rebellion_ for the last three years.  When the people of Paris took the Bastille, they took his power as well.”

The Comte Charles d’Ange snorted gracelessly and tipped the rest of the wine down his throat before he dropped the crystal to the carpet below his chair and wiped his red mouth with a silk sleeve.  “What they _took_ were his balls, if the man ever had any.  Which is doubtful.  He let them get away with it, which was his biggest mistake.  When I was a boy, a similar revolt took place here in Troyes.  But my father knew how to handle such troublemakers.  Do you know what he did?”  When his sons shook their heads, the Comte smiled darkly and said “He rounded up every single one of them and hanged them in the square.”  He leveled his gaze at Gabriel and announced, “We aren’t going to flee our home like cowards.  If any single one of these peasants steps out of line, we will remind them of who we are.”  Castiel opened his mouth to protest, thinking of all the families he knew in Troyes, thinking specifically of the young men who lived and worked in Winchester’s Bakery, but his father stopped him with a raised hand and a glare.  “You’ve been too easy on them of late, Castiel.  It is time to remedy that.”


	3. The Rights of Man

 

 

_December, 1792_

_“Men are born and remain free and equal in rights.”_ \--“Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen,” by the French National Assembly, Aug 26, 1789

 

 

 

The town square was packed closely with excited bodies pushing together toward the front to try to get a better look at the speaker.  A chill wind blew across the fields, caught frost over the river, and carried through the crowd, but the fervent energy running through the villagers kept all the people warm.

At the front of the square, a tall, strong man stood above the others.  He was recognizable because he had spent his whole life in Troyes, laboring in the heat of ovens, and often covered in a dusting of flour.  Even if Castiel did not frequent his shop, even if he did not feel a particular fondness for his family, he would recognize the grim face of John Winchester. 

John Winchester’s voice echoed through the center of Troyes, rising above the others as he waved thick sheets of paper around and called out for the support of the masses.  Castiel stood among them, listening intently, but afraid of his welcome.  He was no fool.  He wore the plainest clothes he could find today, borrowed from one of the stable lads, and he pulled a cloak tightly around himself to hide his identity.  Even then, he shivered as John Winchester’s words roused the crowd.

“This is a new age—an age of learning and change!  We have suffered under the boot of the nobility and the Church for too long—and because they told us that was our place!  But I say, no longer!  No longer will we endure the pain of starvation and the humiliation of poverty!  All men are born free and equal in rights!  And it’s time that we remind them of that!”  The press of bodies around Castiel shouted their agreement, and jostled with the fervor of revolt.  He cast his eyes warily over the heads of all those gathered there, from John Winchester, tall and proud up on his makeshift platform, to his sons who flanked him, and the other citizens of Troyes who gathered in the square, most of whom he knew by name.

Behind them, the windows of the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul were dark and flat, and Castiel knew the priests who dwelled there hid behind its stone walls, too timid to face the censure of the masses.  Around him, the crowd cheered as Bobby Singer took John Winchester’s place, and began his own speech. 

Castiel found himself wondering if even the sturdy stone walls of the Cathedral would be enough to keep the priests safe. 

Stone walls hadn’t been enough in Paris.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The chateau was in an uproar.  The servants hustled through the hallways, carrying trays and boxes and hauling carts of supplies for the unexpected guests.  Outside in the garden, the browning winter grass was crushed under the feet of a company of soldiers, called in from the province, and who waited stoically for their orders. 

Castiel had approached his home warily, still hugging his peasant’s cloak tightly around his body in a futile effort to warm himself against the harsh wind.  When he’d realized what he was seeing, however, he hurried his pace, and ran up the steps of his home, shouting for his father, who he found in his study, in the midst of a conference between himself, his other two sons, and the company’s officers.

“Father, what is the meaning of this?”  Castiel gasped.  “Why are there soldiers here?”

The Comte barely bothered glancing Castiel’s way before he turned back to the soldiers once more and continued with his directions.  “I want you to be thorough, captain, and your men should show no mercy.  To do so at this point would be a mistake, and would only invite further rebellion.  These situations must be handled quickly, and forcefully.  Trouble must be routed at its source.  It is your duty, and the duty of your men, to find that source.  Am I understood?”

“Yes, Monsieur.  When should we begin?”

“Tomorrow.  At sundown.”  The Comte stroked his fingers over his stubbly beard, and Castiel noted that his eyes were clearer in that moment than they had been in years.  “And make no mistake, captain.  I want this business taken care of at once.”

As the officers left the study with their orders, Castiel found himself staring, utterly speechless, at the man whom he called father.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The market was somber.  Few farmers bothered to show up anymore, and those that did had little to sell.  Sam knew this, and in fact, he didn’t even have any coins to spend today.  But he could not stop himself from walking the cobbled paths he was used to, the centuries’ worn stones sliding gently under his feet.  It was just past supper, and it was dark enough that he should have been home, should have been warm in front of the fires of his father’s bakery.  But he couldn’t find peace even there, now.  Not anymore.  He found himself wondering if there ever really had been such a thing, or if he’d only believed it because of his own youthful ignorance. 

Many others wandered the darkening square with him, but they because they had nowhere else to go.  In a short while, they would find doorsteps, and alleys to sleep in, but it was still too early for that.  The town guards still roamed among them, and would harry them on their way if they dared to settle now. 

The square was dark, the lights in the Cathedral muted of late, as the priests withdrew and locked the doors at night—a sacrilege, as far as Sam could tell.  Even the Hotel de Ville was muted, its windows lifeless as the Comte’s family had increasingly avoided the ever-crowded streets of Troyes.  Sam found himself scoffing, and gripping the handle of his empty basket more tightly.  He wondered whether it was a great sin, or instead a great luxury, to be able to ignore the plight of the people.  Surely he was no longer so ignorant, nor so forgiving as he had been a year ago, or even months ago.  He’d heard a lot about death since then.  The streets of Paris ran red with the blood of the nobility and their sympathizers, and the country was now under a new order, one based on enlightenment and freedom.

Sam had learned quite clearly that freedom came with a heavy price.

He pushed his way through the dwindling crowds of the dark market toward the lights of the bakery, clutching his basket close.  He was hungry, but he knew there was little enough left to eat.  His father had been distributing all of their extra bread to their friends who had lost their jobs and their homes, and everything they owned in the last few months, as the local nobility squeezed from them everything they had left.

He was washed in light and warmth as he entered the bakery.  He shrugged his cloak off and set his basket down, but paused in his movement, his eye caught by an anomaly.  Sam squinted and reached into his otherwise empty basket, where a folded piece of parchment lay, unobtrusive and yet dangerous.  With shaking fingers, Sam unfolded the note, and read, in a looping scrawl: _Dean Winchester—if you seek to protect your family, meet me at midnight underneath the hanging tree beyond the river._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean shrugged on his cloak and rubbed his hands together in preparation for the biting cold that waited just outside the relative safety and warmth of the bakery.  Sam followed closely behind him, agitation rolling off of him.  “Dean,” he pled once more, “please don’t go.  We have no idea where the note came from.”

“Doesn’t matter, Sammy,” Dean replied, his voice sure, and far braver than he felt.  “If someone has information that will keep this family safe, then how can I not go and meet them?”

“What if it’s a trap?”  Sam twisted his hands together, his eyes large and pleading as he gazed up at Dean.

“Then you have to warn dad, and the others.  If I’m not back in two hours, you need to tell them.”

“Dean, don’t leave.”

“I need you to be brave, Sammy.  These are dark times, and we all need to do our parts.”

“Someone must know about you, and about dad.  I don’t think this is safe, Dean.  I’m sorry if that makes me a coward.”

“You’re not a coward, Sam,” Dean said, ruffling his brother’s hair lovingly.  Sam had grown a lot over the last year, and might soon even outstrip Dean.  “Cowards don’t care about others, and you do.  You care about everyone.  That’s why I need you to keep everyone safe for me, alright?  I’ll be back.  I’m not worried.”  But even as Dean said the words, he knew it was a lie.  He _was_ afraid.  He was terrified.  Who might have left the note?  And why?  What sort of danger was his family in?  From whom?

The questions haunted Dean’s steps as he made his way out of the town, melting into the shadows as he crossed fields, and then the river, and continued further, to a place he hadn’t been since he was a child.  No one followed him, but he could not help glancing over his shoulder every few minutes anyway.

The hanging tree was ghostly, even from a distance.  Its branches stretched thin and bare in the pale moonlight, their shadows reaching toward him, and across the deadened grass.  Dean’s steps stalled as he drew nearer, and his heart pounded in his chest, urging him to turn and run.  And he almost did, as he watched a shadow flicker behind the massive trunk of the tree and then move, materializing into the form of a person just below the ancient boughs.

Dean swallowed thickly and steeled himself for whatever fate awaited him.  “Hello?”  He called, as he drew nearer to the stranger.

“Are you alone?”  A gruff voice called back—a voice that Dean could almost place, but not quite.

“Yes.”  He wondered if the word would damn him, if the trap would spring now that he was where this stranger wanted him.  Had he been foolish to come here?  Had he left Sammy unprotected?

His thoughts stalled out, and he sucked in a breath as the stranger stepped into a patch of light and pushed the hood of their cloak back, revealing a face that Dean most definitely knew.

“Monsieur Castiel,” he breathed, and took a step back.

“Please,” the Comte’s son called, reaching out a delicate hand, “don’t run.  You and I need to talk.”

“This is a mistake,” Dean murmured, his blood pounding in his ears.  “Why did you call me here?”

“You and your family are in danger.”

Dean took a step back.  “How can we be?  We’ve done nothing.”

“Listen.  Please.  This is important.”  Castiel ran that same pale hand through his hair and shook his head in frustration.  “My father has called in the army.  Beginning tomorrow at sundown, they will conduct a raid of Troyes.  They will arrest anyone they believe is involved with the revolution.  And then they will hang them.”

“Why are you telling me this?  What does it have to do with me and my family?”

Castiel drew nearer, and Dean watched as his eyes seemed to grow softer in the moonlight, full of… some sort of compassion, maybe.  “Dean, I know about your family’s involvement in the rebellion.  I have for months now.”

Dean felt a chill go through him, piercing him to his bones.  He notched his chin just a bit higher.  “Then why bother warning me?”

“Is it so difficult to believe that I care?  That I hope to avoid unnecessary bloodshed?”

“I don’t see how warning me would benefit you.”

Castiel laughed then, a dark chuckle, and it prickled the hair on the back of Dean’s neck.  “I suppose I deserve that.  After all, life has not been fair, and I haven’t done enough to improve it.  Not nearly enough.”  He sighed, and Dean watched as the nobleman deflated, suddenly seeming to shrink to half his size.  “Do you realize that you and I are nearly the same age?”

Dean shrugged, unwilling to admit that he did, in fact, know this, and curious about why it might matter.

“I have known you, and your family for most of my life.  You might not believe me, but I do care.  I know you, and your brother, and your father.  Bobby Singer, and the Harvelles.  I know almost every soul that dwells in Troyes.  And not because you pay your taxes.  Or don’t.  Or because you bake the bread that I’ve bought every week for the last ten years.  I know you.  And I admire you.  And I want to save you.  Because you’re a good man.  Because it’s my duty.  Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably on his feet.  Castiel’s speech had left him feeling sick, and hollow, all at the same time.  “Why should I believe you?”  His voice trembled in the darkness, thin and weak under the heavy branches of the ancient oak tree.

“Because I’m asking you to.”  Castiel cleared his throat and flicked his hood back on.  “Please, Dean,” he breathed, his voice soft on the name, “heed my warning.  Take your family away from here, before it’s too late.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fear and anxiety clawed at Dean’s stomach while the night’s shadows chased him back to the bakery.  Of all the people he thought to meet under the hanging tree, the Comte’s son, Castiel, was near the last.  Of course he knew Castiel, had for most of their lives, just like Castiel had said.  But their knowledge of each other had always been shallow, and distant.  They traded pleasantries across a countertop.  That was not enough for friendship, or for the level of care and knowledge that Castiel seemed to express tonight.  What else did Castiel know about them?  And if he already knew that they and their friends were the core of Troyes’ rebellious underground, how could Dean discount his warnings? 

He was shaking by the time he returned home to a warm fire, and his worried little brother.  They sat around the fire in the back of the bakery as Dean related what he’d learned to Sam, shaking his head in disbelief of their situation.

“We have to leave, then, Dean.”  Sam said, after he heard the story.  “Come on, we need to tell dad and the others.”

Dean scoffed and warmed his hands in front of the fire, his stomach turning at the memory of Castiel’s words.  “Why should we listen to him?”

Sam frowned, and his eyebrows pinched together in consternation.  “Why?  Dean, listen to yourself.  He just warned us that the soldiers are going to come tomorrow, and will hang anyone they think is a rebel.  Why _shouldn’t_ we listen to him?”

Dean snorted.  “Because he’s one of _them_ , Sam!  He’s _one of them_.”

Sam narrowed his eyes.  “Are you really that blind, Dean?  He’s never been like the others.”

“And what would you know of it?”

Sam growled and stood from his spot so that he could pace angrily in front of his brother.  “I’ve been talking to him for years, Dean.  And I pay attention.  He’s a good man, or at least, he tries to be.”

“By doing what?  Buying up enough bread to feed the village, and pandering to his family?”

Sam stopped and stared at Dean, his mouth opening and closing dumbly for a moment, before he whispered, “Do you really not know?”

“Know what?”  Dean asked, tiredly.

“That he donates the bread to the Cathedral, for the poor.”

“What?”  Dean sat up straighter, his eyes narrowed on the tired face of his little brother.

“Yeah, Dean.  Every week.  He buys the bread, and takes it to the Cathedral right after.  And every week, he asks about you.  By name, sometimes.”

Dean felt his throat go dry.  “So what are you saying?”

Sam squared his shoulders.  “I’m saying we should listen to him.”

“What should we tell dad?  He’ll never listen if we tell him the truth.”

“Then we’ll tell him whatever we need to in order to get him and others to leave.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Castiel shivered as the sun began its descent beyond the horizon, and the chilly night air filled his lungs.  His boots struck the cobbles dully, and the echoing thuds blended into the synchronized march of all of those around him.  The soldiers that fanned out before him bore torches on their way, and the flickering flames shed light that licked up the stone and plaster walls of the square.  Castiel’s father and brothers followed behind, content at their decision and righteous in their actions.  Castiel led the soldiers, and his father smiled at the choice, half-vindictive, and half-proud.  Castiel’s heart pounded in his breast, for fear of what the soldiers might find, for fear that his warning had not been heeded.

Townsfolk shouted and protested as the soldiers knocked down their doors and raided their homes and their businesses.  Their indignation was pointless in the face of the armed, regimented men, and their cries did nothing to soften his father’s resolve.

It was the captain’s boot that kicked down the door to the darkened bakery, but Castiel who followed closely after, flanked by two more soldiers.

He breathed out a sigh, relieved, as he realized the bakery was most definitely empty.

“Well,” he said, snapping at the soldiers, “what are you waiting for?”  They stared at him dumbly for a moment, obviously disconcerted to find no one at home.  “Search the place.”  He barked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I've written since July. I'm sorry it's been forever, but hopefully the wait was worth it. I feel much better now :) As always, comments are love!


	4. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité

 

 

 

_January, 1793_

_“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death.” –_ French Revolutionary motto, attributed to  Antoine- François Momoro

 

 

 

The town of Troyes was silent.  Desolate, but wakeful.  It was the kind of wakefulness that watched from behind shutters, hoping to go unseen, caught on an inhaled breath that was too afraid to release.  Doors hung on hinges, broken to let the swirl of snow and frost into homes.  The lights had gone out in windows.  Smoke rose from few chimneys, only then betraying that the town was not, after all, abandoned.  Outside, the pristine white snow had been trampled under dozens of boots, crushed to a dull slate where the remnants of ashes had mixed and then froze.  The streets were empty, the market forsaken.  No matter. There was no food left.  And no money.  In the middle of the square, a hastily built gallows still stood, somber and menacing.  Five ropes, frayed at the ends, swung in the breeze, whispering of what had been, and what might still be.  A warning. 

A hush blanketed the whole of the town, and Troyes waited.

 

 

* * *

 

 

North of the town, lights burned brightly at the Comte’s estate, and raucous laughter filled the hall and the makeshift barracks that held the soldiers.  Wine flowed and the men feasted, warm and content after their work.

The rebellion had been repressed, and those who had been found guilty of subversion had been hanged.  Their pamphlets and declarations had been burned in the sight of everyone.  No one had dared to protest the treatment—not with dozens of rifles and bayonets pointed in their faces, and no place for them to go.  The rebels had been tried quickly—their guilt was easy to establish, and their punishment, justice, was swift.

The Comte D’Ange had done what the King had not—put a stop to the rebellion, crushed the weak-willed protest of the peasantry.  He’d reminded everyone in Troyes of their respective places.

There would be no more protest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel sat in his father’s library, staring blankly down at the expense accounts and tax books.  He’d stopped reading long ago, if truth be told.  The problem was that he just couldn’t focus—he kept remembering the shrill cries of the mothers and wives, and children, when their fathers and sons and husbands had been dragged from their homes and summarily executed in front of them, with the sham of a trial beforehand.  He still heard the drop of the trap door, and the creak of the ropes struggling to bear their weighty burdens.  He remembered the blank eyes that stared back at him from the gallows, and the crowd—eyes that had lost all hope and all feeling, all human empathy and compassion.  He remembered the jeering from the soldiers, afterward, and the way he had admonished them violently and then been sent away by his father, who said the men were allowed their fun after all of their pains.  And now, whenever Castiel tried to focus on the words and numbers on the parchment, his eyes seemed to blur through a glaze of tears that he could not seem to control.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Sliiice_ , thunk.  _Sliiice_ , thunk.  _Sliiice_ , thunk.

The sharp slice of the blade cutting air, then stopping, suddenly, could be picked out even amid the raucous shouting and shoving of the crowd. 

_Sliiice_ , thunk!

Blood spilled.  It drenched the wood of the device, flowing down the steps, up which the next in line was forced to walk.  It ran in rivulets through the cobbles of the square, to pour into the gutters, like refuse.  It coated hands and the faces of the crowd, where it spattered after.

_Sliiice,_ thunk.

Some whispered that the only thing left was to go bravely, with their heads held high, and their wits about them.  Others tried, but dissolved into tears and begging before the end.  No matter—it was all the same.

_Sliiice,_ thunk.

The crowd screamed for more blood, never, ever satisfied, until the whole of the country ran red.  Paris was full up with it, but there was plenty more left to spill, and the people would have it, one way or another.

Few times in the course of human history had the _people_ exacted their vengeance upon their rulers in such a brutal and unequivocal fashion so as to remind themselves, and all men, that in life and in _death,_ they were well and truly equal.

The man shook despite his efforts to still his nerves.  He gulped air convulsively, grasping for each breath of life that he could get, as they marched him up the steps, and forced him to kneel, bowing his head against the wood, curved just so.  Tears filled his eyes and he quaked in the moment of waiting, all the noise a blur around him, the faces of the crowd smeared into an indiscernible palette of color.  His breath rushed in his lungs.  His blood rushed in his ears.  Adrenaline rushed through his body, so vibrant, so vital, so full of life and movement and joy and sadness and hope and love and fear and panic and….!

_Sliiice,_ thunk!

Many in the crowd were shocked—that it was over, that it had happened so fast, that they’d done it.  That a king’s blood truly did run red, just like the others.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

They killed the messenger on the long, rutted road that ran from the reaches of the province to the next town.  They slit his throat and burned the letter, sending its ashes swirling into the cold, merciless January gale.

They numbered more than a hundred, and they continued to grow with each step they took toward Troyes.  They carried the message with them, in their hearts and on their tongues.  In the pounding of their feet and the beating of their wild hearts.  It was a message lost on paper—a medium too flat to convey proper meaning.  It was a message that needed blood to carry it and to seal it.  It was a message borne up by the masses, unstoppable now, like a mighty tempest that had been unleashed, roaring and destructive until it had worn itself out.

It was a long march, but they were warmed by their rage and fueled by the promise of restitution at the end, of blood that might appease them, finally, and grant them their justice.

They took the soldiers off guard.  The company fought back, shooting into the crowd, and stabbing after their muzzles were emptied.  They tore into the heart of the crowd, but there was no stopping them now.  As a whole, they were invincible, surging around those who had ransacked their homes and murdered their neighbors.

John Winchester led the charge, directing the others to storm the chateau.  They crashed against the doors like mighty waves, and flooded inward, drowning those who opposed them.  They carried everything of value out upon their shoulders to be bartered and sold. They warned the servants to flee for their lives or join them.  They took the Comte’s family alive, bound them in chains, and dragged them to the wagon awaiting them outside. 

It was going to be a long march to Paris.

 


End file.
